


Sunday In The Park With Georgia

by Burning_Up_A_Sun



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Babysitting, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Fluff and Smut, Happy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 11:25:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/pseuds/Burning_Up_A_Sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg and Mycroft's hot weekend plans change when they babysit Greg's 3 year old niece. Mycroft never saw himself as a Dad before--will Greg agree?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday In The Park With Georgia

**Author's Note:**

> Stephen Sondheim wrote the amazing musical, SUNDAY IN THE PARK WITH GEORGE. If you aren't familiar with it, go listen! BBC et al. created the Sherlock TV show. I'm just shamelessly and thankfully borrowing :)
> 
> Best Beta ever: 221btls. You are amazing.

_Mine this weekend or yours? --GL_ em >Yours? It will be easier to attend the ballet Saturday night if we are already in the city—MH 

_Mi casa es tu casa—GL_

_I do so love when you are bilingual—MH_

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade read the new text on his iPhone, and smiled, just a little, small enough so no one would inquire what was so funny, but warmly enough that he knew. After six months, Mycroft Holmes still made him smile, still made him feel like a young man going to his first dance. When the couldn't share morning coffee, they shared morning texts.

_You love other things I do with my tongue, too. :P --GL_

_Must you, Gregory? (sigh) I needs go. Urgent matter. --MH_

Lestrade knew “urgent matter” could be code for anything from diplomatic action averting a coup in a third world country to tea with Her Majesty. Greg didn't ask, and if he did slip, Mycroft offered a vague answer and a wave of his hand.

This...thing...they had. Neither knew what to call it. It was more than friends with benefits; that much he knew. Mycroft took him to the ballet and opera; Lestrade took him to pub nights, football games and sometimes, football games on pub nights. Careful in public, they avoided displays of affection, save for holding hands when no one else could see, like in the Loggia box at the opera or on their laps under a pub table. 

“I can't afford for New Scotland Yard to find out about us yet,” Greg explained, earnestly. “It's not something I can slide into the conversation.”

Mycroft had no idea with whom Greg had shared their relationship; Mycroft allowed only Anthea into his world. It was a calculated risk, but in her ten years as his aide de camp she proved herself trustworthy and discreet. Besides, the several weeks he tried to synch his private schedule with his public schedule were a disaster. In the end, he had no choice. True to Mycroft's expectations, Anthea never violated his trust.

Mycroft hated ending his text conversation abruptly; it felt rude. Yet, one did not keep Her Majesty waiting. Especially not a minor official of the government. And the day began.

~ ~ ~ 

When he planned to spend the weekend with Greg, Mycroft attempted to leave his office by 7 pm...most times, he would escape before 9. Gregory understood without hesitation. 

"What time is Inspector Lestrade meeting you this evening, sir," Anthea asked as she placed another stack of daily updates and correspondences requiring his signature on the corner of his aged oak desk. 

“We are to meet at his flat at 7:45 for a 9:30 party for a private screening of the new _Star Trek_ film," he answered already signing letters and missing her broad hint about the current time. 

"With all due respect sir, it is 6:15 currently. May I phone Robert to have your car brought around for 7?" She hinted. "You wouldn't want to be late for the screening."

 

Mycroft offered a rare chuckle. "As much as I am looking forward to this screening, I do believe that you are looking even more forward to tales of the after party on Monday!" he said with one raised eyebrow.

Graciously blushing, Anthea laughed a deep full laugh. "Well sir, I am a closet geek," she said as she headed out of his office to her own. 

His mobile phone sang out Ravel's _Bolero_ , which meant only one person: Gregory. Mycroft loved the insistent melody, how straightforward it was—two qualities he prized most in Lestrade. Gregory had continued to ask Mycroft on dates until he finally agreed. Plus, Lestrade was beyond games. Whatever he thought, whatever he felt, he expressed clearly and concisely, but carefully, so as never to hurt. Reaching out to the phone, Mycroft almost silenced it to get through the stack of documents to expedite leaving. 

With a sigh he answered. “Holmes.”

“Mycroft, I'm so sorry, but I have to cancel our weekend plans,” Greg started right in.“My sister's father-in-law died unexpectedly, and they have to leave town tonight. My mum can't take my niece Georgia until Monday, and I agreed to keep her this weekend.”

“I'm certain she would have done no less for you in the same situation,” Mycroft affirmed, toying with the envelope holding this evening's passes. “Although there will be no need for you to change our plans, unless you would rather Georgia not see us together.”

Greg's lowered his voice to a whisper. “No, love. I have no problems with her seeing us together, but I know that you…aren't often...around children,” he chose his words carefully, as to not offend. “And this is my problem.”

“This is _our_ situation, Gregory. Together. Bring her out to the manor. I think she will enjoy more room to roam,” Mycroft stated simply, his mind already creating lists to ready the house. “Please bring a few things to entertain her, as it has been years since a child has been there,” he added, thinking of Sherlock toddling around in footy pajamas with a blanket in one hand and one of Father's books from the library.

“She and I are mates, so it will be easier than it sounds. It's 6:30 now. We probably won't see you until close to 9, then,” Greg said. “My, thank you so much. For this. For... everything.”

“Go along and gather Georgia. Wait a moment. How old is she?” he said trying to catch Lestrade before he hung up the phone.

“Three! Talk to you soon!” Greg said, and hung up. Better NOT to hear Mycroft's response to that.

“Three? Did you say three?” Mycroft asked an empty phone. He closed his eyes, took a long, deep breath. “Anthea,” he called.

“Sir?” 

“I have a change of plans. We will be at the manor this weekend. Would you please inform the house keeper and please contact my usual grocer to have food delivered. You choose. In addition, would you add a gallon of whole milk, a box of Cheerios, some prepared chicken pieces...” he grimaced, trying to find the right commercial terminology.

 

“Nuggets, sir?” Anthea tried to suppress her snicker. Pre-packaged food and Mycroft Holmes did not go together.

“Yes. Chicken nuggets. Fish fingers. And coffee. PLEASE make sure there will be enough coffee to suffice the weekend babysitting a three year old,” he sighed, pinching his nose and trying to decide how insane he was as she left his office.

“Anthea...one more thing,” he said, calling her back into his office. He handed her the ecru envelope with the tickets for that night's private screening. “We won't be using these. Enjoy.” 

She smiled broadly and left his office, fingers already flying over the small keyboard on the Blackberry. Mycroft packed up his stack of updates and correspondence. He would deal with it later tonight.

 

A crackling fire greeted Mycroft as he entered the manor. The house could be so imposing, overbearing, but a good fire in the fireplace added more than just physical warmth. It brought a sense of home rather than house. Or maybe that was Gregory. Before him, Mycroft spent many nights kipping on the sofa in his office at the Diogenes Club, but since they had been together, they spent a great deal of time here. The manor provided a level of privacy that neither the Club nor Greg's apartment could offer.

The housekeeper obviously had provided a quick once over for dust and clutter and had moved a few of the more precious nick-knacks out of the room. She had laid some woolen blankets on the cocoa leather couch in the event that the fire wasn't enough. The house, in the Holmes family for generations, was drafty, under-insulated and always in need of repair somewhere. And precious for the memories it now held.

 

Mycroft's stomach growled loudly, to his dismay. He opened one of the French doors into the light wood and white kitchen. When he realized the heavenly aroma was home-made beef stew simmering on the stove in the kitchen, he stopped to think about when he had last eaten. Yes. Nine this morning when he was texting Gregory, he had indulged in a croissant with his tea. Twelve hours, for goodness sake. Bowls out; hob switched off. 

“We're here!” a deep voice called out from the from the front foyer. Mycroft came out to greet his two guests. “This is my best mate, Georgia. Georgia, this is Mr. Holmes.” Georgia hid herself behind her uncle's legs and peeked around the side to look at the tall man with ginger hair wearing such formal clothing.

Mycroft crouched down, on eye level with his smallest guest and said, “Hello Miss Georgia. I am Mr. Mycroft Holmes. Welcome to my home.” He extended his hand to shake hers, and she took it. Her eyes never left his. 

“My Home? I like your eyes. They're green and brown. At the same time!” she said, smiling at him and pumped his hand.

“C'mon you. It's late and well past your bedtime.”  


“Uncle Greg, I'm not tired!” she argued through a yawn. He laughed as he kissed her head, and took her up the hallway to a spare bedroom.

“You'll be here all weekend, Georgia. There will be plenty of time for you to see everything tomorrow,” Greg said, staving off any further argument as he wrestled her into her pyjamas.

“All of the beds here are much too high for a child,” Mycroft said. “I had the housekeeper make up the trundle bed in the second guest room. It's close to the ground so she won't tumble out. It is also close to our bedroom,” he added (he always felt so...presumptuous calling it _our bedroom_ ) “so if she needs you, you can hear her.”

Greg bent down low and lay her gently on the soft sheets and tucked her under the thick duvet. He kissed her head and dimmed the overhead light. Greg took Mycroft's hand and, interlacing their fingers, led his lover out of the room and closed the door part way.

 

He stopped in the hall just outside the room, and turned to Mycroft. “I can't thank you enough. This has completely changed your plans. The movie tonight and the ballet tomorrow and...” Mycroft moved closer to Greg, shushing him by gently kissing his lips. 

“I'm just glad that you are here with me,” Mycroft answered, the truth in his eyes. He led Gregory to the bedroom, forgetting his growling stomach. He slid his arms around Greg's waist and kissed him softly, on his forehead, on his nose, on his jaw. Greg caught the lips and leaned in to properly thank Mycroft, slowly first, then with more purpose, his goal evident as he brought his hips closer.

“Mmmm yes,” Mycroft said, eyes closed, concentrating on the rub against his thigh. Greg slid his hands down to Mycroft's arse, pulling him closer still. He brushed his lips against the hollow of Mycroft's throat, slowly licked a stripe up to Mycroft's earlobe, and then lightly bit.

 

Slowly, lightly, did not matter. Each touch sparked Mycroft's cock, until he was ready to drag his lover down to the bed. Greg slipped Mycroft's jacket off, careful to place it on the overstuffed arm chair, the same cocoa colored leather as the living room couch. He unbuttoned the waistcoat, and also placed that gently on the chair. Greg's attention to Mycroft's clothes only inflamed Mycroft further. 

“Come here,” Mycroft's voice was soft but mesmerizing. Greg turned to face his lover, and Mycroft kissed him deeply, speaking what he couldn't voice with words. Hands moved over arse, back, hair, neck, chin. Bodies laid bare, no time for niceties now. Now was passion and heat and lust and love.

They tumbled backward onto the bed, as Greg's shins hit the bed's side rails. They laughed but never stopped kissing or touching. 

“Lube and condom, now,” Greg said, through ragged breathing. “I swear, if I don't fuck you now...”

Mycroft headed for the bathroom, his cock thick and straight against his belly. He flicked off the bathroom light and left the room faintly aglow in the light from Georgia's bedroom. “Should we lock the door?” Greg shook his head. “Should we at least put on use music to mask...?”

Greg shook his head again, “No. You will just have to work to be silent, won't you?” Mycroft's eyes widened at the authoritative tone. So it was going to be like that tonight?

“Yes, sir,” Mycroft whispered. He returned to the bed with the bottle of lubricant. Greg raised an eyebrow. “I know you said condoms, sir, but my health report came back this week. Do you need to see it for yourself?” he asked, subserviently. He kept his head down, looking at the mattress.

They hadn't talked about this yet. It just...happened. After long days ruling his office and often the world, Mycroft tired of decisions. He'd never said anything, but Greg knew somehow, had sensed that Mycroft's needed to relinquish responsibility and power...to yield to someone else's rules.

“There is no reason for me to trust a cock slut like you, but for some reason, I will tonight. Bend over the bed,” Gregory said forcefully. When Mycroft didn't move fast enough, Greg barked, “NOW.”

He heard the snap of the lube top and the squeeze of the liquid. Greg warmed it in his hands before he teased Mycroft's crease with his fingers. He reached around and stroked Mycroft's cock, making sure to slip his fist over the sensitive slit. Mycroft groaned and pushed back as hard as he dared against Greg. He had to be careful though. Sometimes this earned him a spanking.

“Do you like that?” As Mycroft moaned, Greg's thumb stroked circles over the slit and then worked his hand down to the base of Mycroft's shaft and cupped his balls. “And this?” he said, squeezing just the right tight. 

 

“Gregory, sir, I... I'm going to...”

“No. You're not. Stop yourself,” Greg said, moving his hand to his own shaft, and centering it on Mycroft's entry. He slicked his cock once more and pressed in slowly. Mycroft's sounds were all but silent, yet Greg knew. He knew that this was his lover's favorite part; the slow burn as Greg entered him, feeling full and ready to come but holding out as long as he could.

Mycroft pushed back against Greg's hips, to let Greg know he needed more. Now. But Greg slapped his ass. “None of that. Who is in charge?” 

“You are,” Mycroft whispered, his chin leaning on his fists on the bed. “May I stroke myself?”

“No.”

 

“Please,” he whispered.

Greg pushed into Mycroft again and again; the more Mycroft begged, the harder Greg pushed. This game worked both ways. “Beg me again, Mycroft. Please.”

“Please sir, I need to come. My cock is throbbing, and if I can't be inside you, then I need to touch myself and think about your mouth, sir.”

The _sir_ was more than Greg could outlast. His body stiffened, and he came inside Mycroft, his hands grabbing his lover's hips. That would leave 10 bruises on the fair skinned man's hips, but Mycroft would revel in those bruises.

Greg's hand slid under Mycroft's balls, slicking his fingers in lube and come, and reached around to Mycroft's cock. He tapped Mycroft's hand away, and slowly stroked long, strong strokes, until Mycroft cried out and pulsed over Greg's fist. He collapsed onto their down duvet, trapping the wetness under him. Under them.

Greg kissed the back of his neck before disentangling himself. “Love you,” he said, as he kissed the fair neck again, and headed for the en suite bathroom.

Mycroft heard. He heard the words. He knew what _he_ felt, but he was certain Gregory must have slipped out of habit, like one might say after intimacy with a long time spouse.

He stood up, and for lack of anything else, used his flannel pillowcase to clean himself and the duvet. He heard the showering running, and with a perfunctory knock, entered the bathroom to toss the pillow case in the laundry hamper. Greg looked out of the clear glass shower door and invited Mycroft in. 

“I don't think that would be prudent,” he said. “We should be able to hear Georgia if she needs us. Besides,” Mycroft added, “I wouldn't be able to stop myself from...” He wet a flannel and cleaned himself, watching Gregory in the mirror. Gregory knew. He mugged for Mycroft, exaggeratedly cleaning his cock and his arse and his chest. He drew pictures in soap on the glass. Mycroft giggled as Greg smiled and drew a sizable heart in soap on the shower door.

“I meant it, you know. I didn't slip,” Greg said without explanation. And added GL + MH 4ever in soap to the heart. Mycroft smiled, a warm full smile, and went back to bed with a new pillow case.

~ ~ ~

They'd been asleep maybe an hour when Mycroft felt knees in his chest. “My Home? That you? Unka Greg? That you?” Those knees were knife-point sharp on Mycroft's chest. And how the hell did she even get up here? “I can't sleep,” she said. “I haven't slept at all. All night!”

Gregory did not hear. Did not move. Did not even stir. Or that was the realest fake snore he'd ever heard. And since Georgia was staring into his face, Mycroft's chance of faking was nil.

“Shhh Georgia. Please don't wake Uncle Gregory.” Mycroft put his arm around her waist and slid her into the valley between his body and Greg's. He fixed the covers, gave her one of his two down pillows, and tucked her in with a kiss to her head. “Go back to sleep now,” Mycroft whispered to her, stroking her curly blonde hair as he had done with Sherlock so many years ago. 

“My Home,” she said through a yawn. “Why do you share a bed with Unka Greg? Don't you have your own?” 

“Because I love him, Georgia. Good night now,” he said, speaking words he knew were true.

In that king sized bed, with all that room, Georgia snuggled right up to her My Home, tucking her frigid feet against his calves for warmth.

“Good night My Home. Don't let the bed bite.”

~ ~ ~

Mycroft woke alone the next morning, the sun breaking through early winter clouds to light the room. Bacon? And toast. Dressing gown on, Mycroft entered the kitchen to the cozy sight of Gregory in a white, ruffled apron tied around his neck and waist, talking on his mobile phone, while Georgia sat at the table dividing up her Cheerios.

“One for me!” she said, “and one for the goggie!” and dropped a Cheerio on the floor. “One for me. Another for the goggie!” Quite a pile had grown next to her chair. 

Mycroft caught Gregory's eye, who smiled and rolled his eyes to the phone. Mycroft kissed Georgia's head and sat next to her at the battered farmhouse table. “Georgia. May I ask what you are doing?” stopping her hand as she attempted to drop yet another Cheerio to the floor.

“I'm having breakfast!” she answered, the 'obviously' implied.

“And the floor?”

“I'm feeding the goggie. I haven't found him yet, though,” her mouth turned down, truly sad at this loss.

“Georgia, what is a goggie?”

“You know, silly My Home!” she curved her fingers like front paws, stuck out her tongue and panted, then woof! Woof!

“Oh Georgia! I do not have a dog. Did Uncle Gregory tell you that I did?”

“Everyone's got a goggie! Are you sure you don't have one?” she cocked her head to the side, and looked in his eyes, to be sure he wasn't joking.

Gregory caught the end of the conversation as he finished his call. “Georgia's Mum and Daddy have had an Irish Setter for years; he's older than Georgia,” he explained, sitting down at the table. “Georgia, Mycroft does not have a dog; please don't feed the floor,” he said, looking into her eyes, his tone firm. “Take your bowl and go out by the television. You may sit on the floor. Mycroft and I have something to discuss.” She toddled out, cereal bowl tipped precariously in her left hand, and sippy cup in her right.

“Work called,” Mycroft deduced. “I'm assuming it must be very bad if you could not tell them no.”

“Double homicide and a third victim barely alive. It's similar to something last week. I'm praying it's a coincidence, but I have to go and I don't know how long I'll be. My mum...”

“Georgia and I will be fine, if you believe that your sister would approve,” Mycroft stated matter-of-factly. Not his idea of a perfect weekend, but he would do this for Gregory.

Greg reached across the table and held Mycroft's hands and his gaze. “I approve. Very much,” he said. “Thank you love. I will text you when I can.” Greg kissed the top of Mycroft's head, grabbed his scarf and coat from hooks in the scullery turned utility room and walked out, his mind already fully focused on the crime scene. Barely eight in the morning and what a turn the weekend had taken.

Mycroft scooped eggs and several strips of bacon onto his plate. And then snuck an extra strip into his mouth. This shaped up to be a long day. A very long day. Better steel himself now.

Coffee. That's what this day needed. A strong cup of his favorite coffee. The Jamaican Blue Mountain was his treat for this home. Black. He found the bag of coffee in one of the lower cabinets and scooped enough for six cups into the coffee maker. 

“What's that?” a little voice asked from behind.

“Coffee grounds. I'm making coffee. Do you like coffee, Georgia?” Mycroft asked. Really? He shook his head at his foolishness.

 

“My Home, you are very silly. I drink milk!” she crooked her finger and motioned for him to come closer. He obeyed, and Georgia whispered in his ear, “Sometime, Unka Greg gives me...soda!” her giggles rang through the kitchen at the sheer naughtiness of her Uncle.

“Your Uncle Greg is very silly, I think!” Mycroft said. “Let me put the coffee grounds away, and then we can get dressed and begin our day.” She nodded solemnly in agreement.

At her room, Mycroft pointed to the overnight bag on the floral chair in the room. “When you're done getting dressed, go back to the television. I will be with you as soon as I have showered and dressed.” Again, she nodded.

Thirty minutes later after a quick shower, Mycroft emerged from the bathroom in his brown corduroy trousers and a hunter green jumper. These were truly the most casual clothes he owned, perfect for playing with a child. After a tidy of his bed, he joined Georgia at the television. Only, there was no Georgia in the television room. Or her bedroom. 

'Bollocks! I've lost the child. I command an army. Heads of State obey me. I lost a three year old,' he thought, as he searched the house. He heard a small rattle, a cabinet door bang against the frame, and headed directly to the kitchen. On the floor barefoot, with no trousers, two pair of knickers, and her shirt half on sat Georgia. With a spoon. And a bowl and a pile of earth. No. not earth. Coffee. From his cabinet. Jamaican Blue Mountain. 

“Georgia! What are you doing?” Mycroft asked, shocked. His voice was sharp, angry, and the little brown eyes filled with tears.

“I'm sorry My Home! I was digging in the ground!” her tiny mouth trembled, and she tried not to cry.

With a deep breath in and out, he reached down and picked the little girl into his arms. 

“Coffee is just coffee. Coffee is not important,” Mycroft said, looking into her face. Mummy and Father never took time to look, really look, at him or Sherlock. He would not make that mistake. “You are important. And I am sorry that I fussed.” Her mouth turned up at the corners, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, and snuggled into his neck. “Will you help me clean it up?” She nodded solemnly against his shoulder.

He retrieved the whisk and dust pan, and she used the bowl and spoon. “You know,” he said, kneeling on the floor next to her, “it _is_ called grounds.” She giggled. A sweet lilting giggle, carefree and happy. “Bury Georgia!” he said, and slid the grounds from the dustpan over her legs. This time, he giggled with her.

“My Home, you are sillier than Unka Greg!” she said, re-digging the grounds.

“When we finish, let's see what Uncle Gregory brought in your overnight bag,” Mycroft said. “And perhaps a pair of trousers?” More giggles. 

By the time the floor, the hands and the legs were clean and washed, it was 9:30am. Mycroft had the stack of work that he had brought home the night before that needed to be attended to. However, he felt comfortable putting the work aside for a bit of time.

He sat on the bedroom floor with Georgia, and they exhaustively played with the toys from the overnight bag. The stuffed bear took the fluffy bunny on a walk up and down the bed frame. They stacked blocks. They half colored 13 pictures. The clock read 10 am. This was going to be a Very. Long. Day.

Somewhere in the distance, Mycroft heard his text message alert. Georgia led him to the phone, that she had hidden under her bed when they were playing Bear and Bunny. He lay on his belly trying to reach his phone under the trundle bed, but it was no use. His arm was too short; his stomach a bit too much. 

“I get it, My Home!” Georgia wiggled under the end of the bed and found the phone. 

He read the text message. One document was needed now. “Damn!”

 

“Ohhhh My Home! You said a bad word!”

“Come along Georgia. Bring Teddy and Bunny. They can play in the lounge,” Mycroft said, this time making sure she was ahead of him and not wandering off. He picked up the crayons, the coloring book and ducked into his bedroom for his briefcase.

In the lounge he set Georgia up with her crayons at the coffee table in front of the fire. Before he sat down, he chose Broadway music from the iPod on the Bose speakers. The two of them worked diligently while listening to Steven Sondheim. Mycroft almost never shared this guilty pleasure with anyone.

“What is this music My Home?”

“It's from the theater in the United States. From Broadway.” Mycroft was unsure of himself. He did not know how to speak to a three year old, or even what a three year old understood. 

“It's about me!” Georgia squealed. Mycroft furrowed his brow. How could someone so young be so confusing? She should be transparent. “Me!!”

“It's _Sunday in the Park with George...”_ he explained patiently. She squealed and clapped again. Oh. Sunday in the park with Georgia. 

“Do you like your song?” he asked. He placed his papers carefully on the table and scooped her up to dance to the song about standing in the heat on an island in France. They danced, slowly at first, a proper waltz, but when she enjoyed the twirl, he wanted her to giggle again. 'This,' he thought. 'This I could get used to.'

 

After their dance, Georgia decided they needed drinks (Water, please, My Home!), and they settled again to work. Mycroft's pile dwindled, while Georgia's drawings pile grew. Mycroft realized why too late. His papers merged with hers....his now had colorful round people with arms from their head bodies all over the back.

Another deep breath. Separate the papers. Text Anthea to delay what she could and reprint what needed to be printed if it couldn't be emailed or uploaded.

“Sunday in the park with GEORGIA!” she sang again, as she colored. 

“Sunday in the park with GEORGIA!” she sang again, as she played with Bear and Bunny.

Mycroft, his papers stacked and back in his briefcase, announced it was time for an early lunch. Georgia ran into the kitchen singing, “Sunday in the park with Georgia and My Home!”

His heart dance in time with her song.

According to the note in the overnight bag, nap time immediately followed lunch. Unsure where a child would nap (Bed? Couch? Floor?) he settled his guest in her trundle bed, covered her snugly and kissed her head. Back to his chair in front of the fire, Mycroft opened his laptop to respond to emails. Seventy five emails since 6 last night.

“I can't sleep,” she complained from the doorway

“You didn't try,” Mycroft responded.

“Yes I did. I'm not tired.”

“No, you didn't, and I can hear that you're tired.” 

“Yes I did.” Did she just stomp her foot?

Mycroft closed the lap top, scooped her up, and said, “I will tell you a story, but then you must go back to bed.” Such a big smile and his heart grew. 'Well played, little one,' he thought. 'well played.'

They settled on the couch, Mycroft's head against the arm, and Georgia laying along his side, until she wiggled to be on his chest and side. 

“Once upon a time, a strong, smart princess named Georgia (“That's me!”she smiled sleepily) came upon a castle. Since she was tired and required lodging (yawn, first hers, then his), she knocked politely at the door. A giant ginger-haired ogre answered the door (“That's you!” she barely eked out) and...”

Mycroft felt a tickle of hair on his cheek. Gregory's hair required a trim immediately. Except that Gregory was giggling. And tickling with tiny fingers.

When Mycroft opened his eye, two small brown eyes with long lashes greeted him. “My Home, you snore!” He would have to change her name to Giggles. It was settled.

He sat them both up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. They laughed at each others' bed head, and Georgia raced him to the kitchen for a snack. “Sleeping makes me hunnnngryyy,” Georgia said, in her best dinosaur princess voice.

Mycroft retrieved his phone from where it had been fallen into the sofa. Two in the afternoon and he still hadn't heard from Gregory. Mycroft knew that meant the case must be dreadful. He hesitated to text or call. 

“Snow! Snow! My Home, it's snowing! Let's go make a snowman!” Georgia ran into the lounge to drag her new friend outside. The snow barely covered the garden.

 

“We would need much more snow than this for a snowman,” he explained, but looking at her crestfallen face, he said, “but have you tasted snow?” Big bright eyes and an equal smile. “Out we go then, but shoes and a coat first!” he called, as she set to jettison herself out the scullery room door.

They stood in the back garden, faces to the sky, tongues out, tasting the first snow of the season. It was fresh and lovely, and Mycroft had never enjoyed snowflakes more than at that moment.

“In my eye, My Home! One fell in my eye!” Georgia laughed and ran and giggled, and he finally corralled her and carried her into the kitchen. Her red cheeks and nose were cold against his neck, and he held her closer.

“New clothes Miss Georgia Giggles, and then hot cocoa!” Although it was early afternoon, Mycroft decided that she needed her pyjamas and fluffy socks and settled her with her cup of hot cocoa onto the leather couch that matched her drink. He stoked the fire, and sat down with her while they drank. He told her stories of long ago, when he was a boy and his brother was her age.

“What was his name?”

“His name is Sherlock,” Mycroft answered. Such a big name for her to pronounce.

“Oh! Dammit Sherlock!” 

Mycroft almost spilled his cocoa as he sputtered and laughed. “Excuse me?”

“Unka Greg knows him. He says, Dammit Sherlock!”

“I'm sure he does,” Mycroft said, with another sip. “I'm sure he does.”

In the late afternoon, Mycroft found a cartoons on the television for Georgia while he finished his emails and re-heated stew for dinner. He indulged her and allowed her to eat on the floor in front of the television, while he put his feet up and contemplated how absolutely exhausted he was after 11 hours of being a 'parent'.

Deciding against giving Georgia a bath, Mycroft insisted that they tidy up the crayons and papers and toys before bed at 8 pm. She happily assisted and did well, singing her ABC song, and something that sounded like her _Sunday_ song.

He tucked her into her bed after helping her brush her teeth. She looked at him and said, “Would you sit with me for a while?” Those eyes and that voice. How could he lose himself so completely in such a short time. She didn't want a story. She just wanted to know he was there. She fell asleep after a “good night My Home. I love you.”

“Good night, Miss Georgia Giggles. I love you too.” And he did.

At 10, a text alert woke Mycroft who had fallen asleep in the rocking chair near Georgia's bed. He'd pay for that with a crick in his neck. “ _ **Wrapping up. Will leave ASAP—GL”**_ Mycroft understood all that the text did not say. It could be hours still before he would see his best friend.

He crept out of Georgia's room, standing in the doorway a second longer after he dimmed the light. She looked so beautiful sleeping, her face peaceful and heavenly. He forgot about his favorite coffee ground into the seams of his hardwood floor, and the multi-color drawings on his government documents. He thought of her hair tickling his face when she napped and her giggles bringing life to a house—a home—that hadn't seen proper life in so long. 

Partially closing the door, Mycroft returned to the warmth of the living room to finally make a dent in the stack of documents in hand and online. He smiled broadly when he saw a picture of two circles, with large eyes and wonky mouths, arms extending from the heads—holding hands with wobbly hearts surrounding the them. He had asked her to tell him about this drawing.

“That's you, silly My Home with Unka Greg.” She was amazingly perceptive, seeing what even he hadn't realized before yesterday.

At midnight, Mycroft turned in, almost against his will, but knowing that Georgia would need the best of him tomorrow. Brushed, washed, changed, he settled on his side under the duvet, his hand smoothing the spot where Greg should be. His last thought, before he succumbed to the sleep of the exhausted, was of permanence.

Mycroft roused as he felt the bed dip next to him. Gregory slid under the duvet, his body chilly from having been outside. He slid up behind Gregory, and nuzzled his neck, his nose gently rubbing side to side. Greg took his hand, entwined their fingers and enfolded their bodies. 

“Love you,” Greg whispered. “Thank you again for today.” He snuggled back, closer to Mycroft, who held him tighter.

“I love you too, Gregory.” Mycroft breathed deeply. His first time. How this man had changed him. “Have you ever thought about, well, getting married again, and having a child? With me?”

Greg rolled over to face Mycroft, his hands and mouth answering ardently. Mycroft responded to his lover's moving body, sliding over his, hands cupping his face and drinking deeply from him. The two as one, right up until Mycroft fell embarrassingly asleep. Greg kissed his mouth once more and again on the forehead. He too fell into the bliss of sleep. All else could wait.

~ ~ ~

In the morning, Mycroft pulled the curtains to darken the room and allow Greg a bit of a lie-in. Dressed in warm, casual clothes, he stood cooking oatmeal at the stove, when two small arms encircled his legs. 

“What could it be, gobbling my legs when there is delicious oatmeal all ready to eat?” He laughed and picked her up, swirling her around until she sat in her chair at the table. 

Giggles, plans, hot cocoa accompanying a bowl of oatmeal, and their day was set. Snowmen, drawing, cartoons, and more of the nap time story about a princess winning over the ginger ogre.

“Good morning you two! Thick as thieves, aren't you?” Uncle Greg said, bending down to hug his niece and kissing Mycroft on the cheek. “My, I meant to tell you last night that my mum can take Georgia today instead of dropping her there tomorrow.”

Mycroft looked at Georgia, willing to take her cues about moving to her grandmother's house today. Her eyes grew large, and her mouth a circle of shock. “But Unka Greg! My Home and I are going to be Sunday in the Park with Georgia! We're going to make a snowman and sing and drink too much cocoa! And I hafta take a nap, but My Home will tell me the story about the ginger ogre and the yellow princess!” She shoveled oatmeal in, batting her eyes at her uncle.

'Oh, it's a good thing she is not ours,' Mycroft thought. 'I'd be twisted around her finger.'

“You are, you know,” Greg said aloud, laughing at Mycroft. “I see it on your face. Totally wrapped around someone's finger.”

“Well, I did promise her,” he answered, lamely. Greg came up behind him and encircled Mycroft's waist with his arms. His breath tickled Mycroft's ear and something a little lower. He loved knowing that it could mean words, or a flick of a tongue or a nip of teeth. 

“I love it,” Greg whispered. “Do you remember what you asked me last night, before you passed out from exhaustion?”

Torn between the truth and a lie, realizing his future pivoted on this moment, he nodded. 

“Yes,” Greg answered. “I do. Quite often.” Mycroft turned around to face Greg, not breaking the circle of his arms. “If you're okay with it, I would like to let people know that we are together.”

They kissed, sealing their decision, while Georgia ate oatmeal and sang her song. “Sunday in the park with Georgia, and My Home and Unka Greggggggg.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
